


Blood on Blood

by JantoJones



Series: Stand-alone Two (The 2nd 100) [34]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-10 00:38:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15279747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JantoJones/pseuds/JantoJones
Summary: Napoleon is sent evidence of Illya's apparent betrayal.





	Blood on Blood

When Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin had been partnered, each man was naturally wary of the other, but they soon learned that they worked perfectly together. Their methods were different, yet wonderfully complementary. Somehow, the outgoing, happy-go-lucky American, and the taciturn, frosty Russian had come to trust one another implicitly. They had even developed a strong friendship and considered themselves brothers. In fact they had both proved to the other that they would put themselves in harm’s way if it meant saving their partner. Which was why, when Napoleon had been presented with evidence of Illya’s treachery, he categorically refused to believe it.

It had started with an envelope, addressed to Solo, being delivered to Del Floria’s. This in itself wasn’t a concern. Agents often mailed things to the address, and the secret entrance to U.N.C.L.E. HQ was all that much of a secret. Inside the envelope was a note and a photograph. The note instructed him to go to the derelict Eden Theatre on the outskirts of the city, where he would be given further evidence of Kuryakin’s apparent betrayal. The photograph, which was obviously meant as to bait Napoleon, showed Illya seemingly handing over a package to a known Thrush official named Martin Hoyt.

When Hoyt had first come to the attention of U.N.C.L.E. he had been a middle ranking official. Through the usual infighting and toxic ambition, which was prevalent within the Thrush ranks, he had risen through the hierarchy. It was believed that he was now only one move away from the Central Council. 

Having been in the espionage game for a good many years Napoleon had long since learned not to take anything at face value. He also knew Illya well enough to know there was more to the image that what was being presented. He was yet to have an explanation for the photograph but, if Illya was going to break his oath to U.N.C.L.E., he wouldn’t be so stupid as to get caught out so easily. 

Napoleon assembled his communicator and opened a channel to his partner; who was on leave for the week. After a minute or so, when the communicator remained unanswered, Napoleon began to feel mildly apprehensive. All agents, whether on leave or not, were expected to carry their communicators with them at all times. At the back of his mind, a tiny little voice whispered, ‘what if it’s true?’. Napoleon immediately dismissed the voice. Until he saw an act of betrayal with his own eyes, then he wouldn’t entertain the idea. Besides, it could just be that he was in the bathroom. 

Deciding that the best course of action would be to bring the subject up with Mr Waverly, Napoleon headed for the boss’s office. He had no doubt the Old Man would send him to investigate but, as it turned out, he was in a protracted meeting and couldn’t be disturbed. After asking Lisa Rogers to tell Waverly where he’d gone, Napoleon headed out for the mysterious rendezvous.

The street on which the theatre was situated was pretty much deserted, and was just as run down as the building to which Solo had been summoned. The few people who were around showed no interest in the car which had arrived in the street. Napoleon parked in front of the theatre and, after double checking he had everything he might need, he got out of the vehicle. With his immaculately tailored suit he felt a little over-dressed for the neighbourhood, yet still no-one paid him any heed.

All the entrances to the theatre were covered by heavily graffitied boards and, pulling of them aside, Napoleon was able to squeeze his way inside. Although it was dark within, there was enough light in the foyer for him to see. Above the once ornate space, which still held echoes of a bygone opulence, there was a small domed skylight. It was coated in years of dirt and grime, but fingers of sunlight streamed into the foyer through long broken panes of glass; highlighting the dust which hung in the air.

The message had instructed him to go to the auditorium, where he would ‘discover something disturbing’, but he chose not take a direct route. The whole situation seemed to have ‘trap’ written all over it so, instead, he took a circuitous route through to the backstage area. The corridors behind the public areas, which had no reason to put on a good face, were far less sumptuous. There was also no natural light, meaning that Napoleon had to use his small flashlight to pick his way through the years of dusty neglect. Listening out for anything untoward, he peeked into any room he passed, but didn’t find anything of interest. After searching around for around fifteen minutes, Napoleon eventually emerged from the wings, stage right. 

He couldn’t fail to see Illya, who was illuminated by a spotlight. The light had a murky tinge to it, probably as a result of years of built up grime, but in the darkness it shone like the sun. The blond was bound to a chair and his mouth was stuffed with a filthy gag to keep him silent. Not that the gag was needed, however, as Illya was quite unconscious. Attached to his blood-stained white shirt with safety pins were two more photographs from the apparent handover.

Napoleon’s first instinct was to go straight to his stricken friend. However, as he had no idea what was going on, it would be foolhardy to rush in. He moved around Illya in a wide circle, wincing at the heavy bruising which covered the man’s face. Whoever had brought Illya to the theatre had clearly had a job to subdue him. Deciding that he was probably in the line of fire whatever he did, Napoleon stepped over to his partner and removed his gag. 

After untying the gag, Napoleon gently patted Illya’s cheek to rouse him. It took quite a few seconds but, finally, the Russian’s eyelids fluttered open to reveal the brilliant blue irises beneath. He looked around frantically, trying to gain a grasp of his situation. Waking up in a state of confinement was an occupational hazard for an U.N.C.L.E. agent and ascertaining as much as possible became second nature. Unable to get a handle on things, Illya finally looked to Napoleon.

“Would it be a cliché to ask where I am, how I got here, and what was the number of the truck which hit me?” Illya asked groggily.

“You’re in a derelict theatre,” Solo told him, as he began to untie his partner’s ropes. “As to how you got here, your guess would be as good as mine. I was lured here by a note that which promised evidence of you turning against U.N.C.L.E.”

Illya raised a quizzical eyebrow at what his partner had just said and sighed in exasperation. Would there ever be a day when his loyalty to U.N.C.L.E. wasn’t in question? He briefly wondered who was attempting to stir trouble this time but dismissed that train of thought immediately. It really didn’t matter in the long run.

“Any injuries?” Napoleon asked as soon as Illya was free.

“Just the usual bruises, and expected headache,” the Russian replied.

As he stood up he noticed the photographs which were pinned to him, which he promptly tore off.

“That is the apparent evidence of your betrayal,” Solo told him. “If I didn’t know the kind of man you are, this could look quite damning.”

“I appreciate your faith, my friend,” Illya replied, genuinely moved by Napoleon’s trust. “This was the final part of ‘Operation Turncoat’.”

Napoleon nodded in recognition. He hadn’t been party to the operation, and was unfamiliar with many of the details, but as CEA he had been made aware of it. All he knew was that Illya was feeding misinformation to Thrush, leading to him giving details of bogus operations. U.N.C.L.E. had contrived to give Thrush positive evidence of the information they were given, so that they were more likely to believe the operations details. The plan was to lie in wait and mop up any Thrush which came calling. This part of the plan was scheduled for the following week, but it seemed that Illya’s contact wanted to do more than disrupt U.N.C.L.E. operations.

“I hadn’t realised your contact was Martin Hoyt.”

“It wasn’t to begin with,” Illya explained. “But the information I was giving them was deemed important enough to make an exchange with someone higher up. I am assuming that they decided to use my ‘betrayal’ against me.”

“Discrediting you would ensure you were no longer a thorn in their side,” said Napoleon. “It seems Hoyt is ready to make a play for a place at Central.”

“DAMN YOU!!”

The cry emanated from the darkness in the back of the auditorium, shortly followed by muzzle flash and the sound of a gun firing. On the stage Napoleon grunted and dropped to his knees; clutching the top of his right arm. Blood was already seeping through the fingers he was clamping over the wound. Almost at the same time, Illya yelped and fell backwards. A crimson stain blossomed on his shirt, just above his left collarbone. The bullet which had grazed Napoleon had found a home in Illya’s shoulder. Putting his own discomfort aside, Solo immediately moved to staunch his partner’s much more severe blood loss.

“Why didn’t you believe it?” Hoyt demanded, as he strode towards the stage with his gun raised. “Why didn’t you accept his treachery?”

“Illya wouldn’t betray U.N.C.L.E.,” Napoleon snarled. “Especially not to Thrush.”

“You can’t trust him,” Hoyt practically yelled. “He is from an enemy country.”

The man was shaking with apoplexy, which was making Napoleon nervous. He’d already shot once, and an unstable man was liable to do so again.

“If you had wanted to sow the seed of doubt, you should have chosen someone who doesn’t trust me, and doesn’t have my back,” Illya gasped.

“This man my closest friend,” Napoleon told Hoyt. “Our nationalities have no impact on that. In fact, after everything we’ve been through, I’ll happily call him brother.”

Unseen by Hoyt, due to Napoleon’s position shielding him, Illya reached up and drew his partner’s gun. Despite feeling as though he was going to pass out at any moment, he swung the gun around and took Hoyt down with sleep dart. He handed the weapon back to Napoleon.

“Thank you, my friend,” he said, his voice almost a whisper due to the pain he was in.

“Anytime,” Solo replied. “If you need to borrow it again, just say so.”

“Not what I meant,” Illya told him. “Thank you for your trust, and for considering me your brother.”

“We’ve been through the fire together, Tovarisch. Our friendship was forged in that fire.

“We are more than brothers, Napoleon,” Illya said with a slight smile. “The blood on your hand has mingled with my own. We are blood-brothers.”

With that statement, Illya’s strength left him, and he finally passed out. In a way, Napoleon was glad. The conversation was beginning to turn a little too sentimental. Not that he could deny the sentiments being expressed. Taking out his communicator, Napoleon called for medical assistance and a clean-up crew. While he waited for them to arrive, he kept his bloodied hand pressed against Illya’s chest; ensuring that his brother would survive another day. 

 

_Blood on blood. One on one_  
We'd still be standing  
When all was said and done  
Blood on blood. One on one  
And I'll be here for you  
Till Kingdom come 

_Blood on blood ~ Bon Jovi_


End file.
